Insomnia
by giraffelove92
Summary: "It was a cruel game, insomnia; a pitiless mistress that stole away the night while simultaneously robbing one of one's sanity." Draco/Hermione. Smut.


**I suffer from acute chronic insomnia, so I know what it's like to go days, even weeks without proper sleep. It sucks. Anyway, the idea popped into my head while I sat awake one night tossing and turning. So here you are, a story titled "Insomnia" written by an insomniac. Not my best work, but I claim it anyway.**

**Enjoy and review if you feel so inclined!**

**:)**

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_When you have insomnia, you're never really asleep... and you're never really awake. With insomnia, nothing's real. Everything's far away. Everything's a copy of a copy of a copy._

_-Fight Club_

* * *

Hermione crept down the stairs, mindful of her sleeping housemates. Although Number 12 Grimmauld Place had all the comfortable amenities of a modern home, it was still old and quaint, complete with creaky stairs and a hot water heater that could not support more than four residents. Unfortunately, there were often twice that many staying in the house; various members of the Order in need of rest and respite, passing through London on their way to another headquarters, or Aurors looking for a sanctuary for a couple of days while they prepared for their next mission. The old Black home was never quiet.

She was currently the only permanent resident; she had been hit with a particularly nasty spell when she and Seamus were ambushed while on assignment in Cambridge, and the healers (and Molly Weasley, to her great annoyance) had insisted that she remain idle for a good ten weeks if she wanted to make a full recovery. She was only eleven days away from being free of this hell. Sometimes her chest and ribcage still cramped if she moved too quickly or bent wrong, which was painful as hell, but she was healing well considering the magnitude of the curse that McNair had thrown at her. One of the Order's healers had told her that it could take years for the pangs to stop completely.

But at least she was alive. That was more than she could say for Seamus.

Swinging the door open to the kitchen, she sighed, disappointed.

Empty.

She had not seen him in over a week. None of her comrades had any word of his whereabouts.

Not that they even cared. He was only a tool to them; he had never been acknowledged as a true member of the Order, shunned by all except for when he was of use to them. It was ironic, she thought – he was perhaps the hardest working person in the entire resistance, but he was the least appreciated. His job was the most dangerous of them all; he faced a fate far worse than death if he was discovered. And yet he never asked for anything, and not once in five years had she heard him complain.

A far cry from the pale, skinny boy that had tormented her in school. This version had a gift for silence, and had graduated from bigoted brat to hard-working agent; he was tall, well-built, more of a man and less of a boy. He possessed a deep, passionate anger that he kept buried within, simmering; but sometimes she could see its intensity, would watch warily as hot rage flashed briefly across his silver eyes, gone as soon as it appeared.

He spent many nights at Grimmauld Place, pacing the length of the kitchen. When, after a few days of hearing him wear a hole in the floor, she had joined him in the dining area and poured them each a glass of firewhisky. He'd sat down at the table without a word and drained his drink in one gulp. The next time he stayed overnight three nights later, she had done the same thing, and from then on their meetings had become routine. They would sit there together at the table in comfortable silence, sipping at their drinks; sometimes they would stay there for hours, until the morning sun started to creep through the windows.

She had found that he struggled with the same sleeplessness she did, perhaps even more so. Dark memories haunted their dreams and stirred up a deep paranoia that plagued them when they were awake, making it nearly impossible to get to sleep in the first place. She had tried many an elixir, but none could break through the trauma of her psyche; she knew that he could not risk taking a potion, could not take the chance of his mind becoming vulnerable. His Occlumency must remain constant at all times. In his occupation, discovery meant certain death. So they each went through life with façades of functionality, doing their jobs to the best of their ability as they suffered in secret.

She fixed herself a cup of hot tea, adding a generous splash of brandy to ease the tension in her body and mind. Sitting at the kitchen table, in the chair diagonally adjacent to his usual spot at the head of the table, she stared at the kitchen door; waiting, waiting, waiting for it to swing open and for a tall, scowling blonde Death Eater-turned-spy to come stalking into the room.

But he never came. And so she sat there in stillness and silence, worrying the inside of her cheek with her teeth, as she always did when she was anxious.

Any chance of sleep eluded her, once again. So for the eighth night in a row she sat and thought about the boy-turned-man Draco Malfoy…

…with insomnia her only company.

000000

On the tenth night of his absence, Hermione Granger finally slept.

She slipped into peaceful slumber; not because her mind was at ease, but because her body demanded it – it was beginning to shut down from lack of rest. She had colorful, intense dreams, but she slept nonetheless. She was not about to complain; she would take what she could get.

After a full four hours of deep sleep, she jerked awake, her sensitive ears picking up on the faintest of noises downstairs. The clock read 2:34. Her ears straining, she heard a rich male voice utter an expletive that would have had Molly gasping in horror.

She sighed in relief. She knew that voice.

Climbing out of bed, grateful for the few hours of sleep she had gotten, she slipped her lightweight purple silk robe on over her over-sized t-shirt (it had once belonged to Charlie Weasley, she remembered), knotting the tie securely. She was instantly sweating; the house's air conditioning was marginal, and it struggled to keep up with the muggy heat of London's August. She pulled her mop of hair up into a high ponytail – it had grown impossibly long these last few weeks, the extra weight keeping it from becoming too frizzy – and secured it with a hair band. Slipping out of her bedroom door, she crept down the stairs, avoiding the steps that creaked; she was an expert by now, having walked those stairs hundreds of times. She heard snoring as she passed the room that George now inhabited, and she smiled fondly.

A black cloak was draped haphazardly over the banister at the bottom of the stairs, and she recognized the smell immediately – crisp pine and hints of musk and citrus. She touched it absentmindedly, but recoiled when her hand came away covered in blood.

Horrified, she flew into the kitchen, paying no mind to how the door slammed open a little too loudly. She stopped short when she came face to face with the tip of a wand.

For a split second she took in his wild eyes – as pale a silver as she had ever seen them, almost iridescent in the low light of the kitchen. It was a striking image to behold, one that would remain imprinted in her memory for years to come. His pale beauty never failed to stun her; if angels existed, surely he was one of them.

A fallen angel, perhaps.

A light bulb flickered and buzzed, and then burnt out. His hair was slightly mussed, gleaming nearly white in the light. Blood poured down his left temple, staining the pale yellow hair above his ear a deep maroon and running in a crimson trail down the side of his jaw to his neck. Blood soaked through the front of his white t-shirt and she thought she saw a stain on the knee of his dark jeans. The toned forearm pointed at her face sported an ugly, jagged gash, and she noticed the awkward angle at which he held his other arm, cradling it gingerly against his side. His eyes were white hot with a mixture of rage, fear and pain; the severity of his gaze had her stomach doing somersaults.

This was a man she should be afraid of.

His hand was shaking. She reached up to put a hand on his wrist, pressing it down slowly as recognition dawned in his eyes.

"Granger," he said in acknowledgement, his voice hoarse and strained. The emotion in his eyes faded into something else that was somehow no less intense. Because that's what Draco Malfoy _was_ – pure intensity in its rawest form. He had nearly impeccable control, was a master of schooling his face into a mask of indifference – but there was always that aura of power around him, a constant hum beneath his skin. He exuded a sense of mystery, and anyone within a hundred feet of him could see how dangerous he was. But his was usually a quiet presence, and he used it in his favor; he was easily overlooked as a threat when compared to some of his more volatile colleagues – on both sides – but it worked to his advantage. He was a snake in the grass, hidden until he struck when you least expected. There was no way to see him coming.

"Jesus, Malfoy, what happened to you?" she asked, relieved when he set his wand on the table.

"I'm fine, Granger, really; but your concern is touching," he said acidly, turning back to the task at hand. She watched in amusement as he struggled to open a bottle of Ogden's finest with one hand. She rolled her eyes, exasperated, but did not offer to help – his pride would not allow it. She would only insult him by performing the task for him. Eventually he worked the cork free enough to grab onto it with his teeth, tugging it out with a pop and spitting it somewhere across the room. She grimaced in disgust as he took a long pull straight from the bottle, barely wincing as the sharp liquor burned down his throat. She grabbed two glasses from the cabinet and set them on the dining room table, pulling the bottle from his grasp and pouring them both a generous amount.

"No need to be uncivilized," she muttered critically, sipping at her whiskey. "And don't mistake my curiosity for concern," she added acerbically, her eyes shooting daggers.

He snorted, the corners of his lips quirking up. She saw a spark in his eyes then, which had darkened back to their typical enigmatic grey; but it was gone as soon as it had appeared. If there was anything that Draco Malfoy appreciated in another human being, it was the ability to match him in wit. And Hermione Granger was a more than worthy adversary. She had his respect.

"Alright, Granger, I'll bite," he said casually. "We got attacked by Aurors at Nott's family home tonight. An attack that I had _no_ knowledge of, I might add; no one deigned to warn me about this little escapade. And no one spared any blows. The gashes are a courtesy of the lovely Miss Weasley," he said, gesturing to the open wounds, "and whatever the hell happened to my shoulder was caused by a chunk of rubble that Lupin flung my way with a levitation spell. Great friends you have, Granger, really. I'm charmed."

She swallowed, horrified. "Ginny? _Ginny_ did this to you?" she asked disbelievingly, looking him up and down. He was a mess.

He chuckled humorlessly. "Oh come now, Granger. Why are you even surprised? I'm certainly not. Your precious Order members have incredible abilities when it comes to holding a grudge. The mistrust and general _loathing_ have not abated in five years – Lovegood is the only one who has shown an ounce of kindness, but that's because she's more than a little peculiar. Arthur tolerates me. And you…" He trailed off, unsure of the right words. "Well, you're something else entirely. You've always been a bit wonky, if you ask me."

She glared at him, clenching her jaw. She could not truly be angry with him – not after what he had been through tonight.

"I'm kind to you because I am very aware of just how much you do for this resistance," she admitted, keeping her voice nonchalant, as if she weren't paying him a compliment. "We would be in the gutter without you working on the other side, Malfoy. It will take a long time for people to acknowledge it, but they will eventually when they look back at this mess in years to come."

"Perhaps a brick to the head would help," he muttered good-naturedly, not openly recognizing her complimentary statement but showing gratitude in his own way nonetheless.

She could not help the small smile that pulled at the corners of her mouth. "Perhaps," she agreed humorously. "Plus, drinking alone is no fun; if I were rude to you, I would be sitting at that table by myself with a glass of scotch, and that's just pathetic."

He snorted and shifted, wincing as he did so. "Yes, well, I can't very well leave you to enjoy your insomnia alone, can I?"

He attempted to pull his shirt over his head with his good arm, but swore as he bent in the wrong direction. She swatted at his arm impatiently.

"Your shoulder's dislocated, idiot. You're not going to get anything done with it like that," she chastised, pressing gently at the junction between his shoulder and chest. He hissed and jerked away from her, sending her a sullen glare.

"Ouch," he said pointedly, gritting his teeth. "That _hurt."_

She gave him a false sugary smile, looking up into his eyes. "Aw, I'm sorry, Malfoy," she returned sweetly. "If you're good while I fix you up, you can have a lollipop."

He growled, his eyes narrowing. "Watch it, Granger."

She rolled her eyes, exasperated. "Sit down, Malfoy. Let me go get my wand, and I'll patch you up well enough until you can get to see a healer tomorrow."

He lowered himself gingerly into the chair at the head of the table, taking a big gulp of his drink. "Just use mine," he said casually.

As soon as the words were out of his mouth he tensed, seeming to realize what he had said. She stared at him, surprised.

Voluntarily allowing another witch or wizard use of one's wand was a gesture that indicated the highest level of trust between the two individuals. It was not done lightly – Hermione herself felt uncomfortable with anyone else using her wand, not trusting others to handle it properly. She was equal parts shocked and curious at his highly personal offer. She hesitated, giving him a moment to retract his statement. He remained silent, looking at her with steady grey eyes.

"A-Alright then," she said hesitantly, peering at him curiously. "If you're sure."

"I'm sure, Granger." He held the wand out to her handle first. She took it gently, allowing the smooth hawthorn wood to settle comfortably in her grip.

"Okay – this will work," she confirmed. She hummed in approval, liking the way the wand felt in her palm. She twirled the thin wooden stick between her fingers, pointing it at the door and sweeping it around the room. _"Silencio."_ Draco looked at her quizzically.

"Fixing your shoulder is going to hurt," she explained. "I'll have to pop it back into place, and I don't want you waking the whole house if you wimp out."

He scowled. "Easy with the compliments, Granger."

Hermione smirked and lifted his shirt away from his skin at the neck. _"Diffindo minimus,"_ she muttered, running the tip of Draco's wand down the front of his shirt. She made two other incisions and was able to peel the blood-soaked material away from his skin. He hissed as the shirt stuck to his wounds. She did the same with the right leg of his pants, tearing it above the knee.

Even covered in cuts and bruises the perfection of his body was evident. Her eyes wandered over his torso in admiration.

No one could deny that Draco Malfoy had become a very attractive man. He was almost 24, just entering the prime of his life, and the five years of physically strenuous work had done wonders to his physique. His shoulders were impossibly broad – not at all reminiscent of the slight teenager he'd been in school – and his chest and abs were defined without being too bulky. The perfect muscles of his arms bulged and flexed with every movement. When she put a gentle pressure next to a gash on his chest with the pad of her index finger, his pectoral muscles jumped under her touch. He tried to hide the pain, but she could see the clenching of his jaw and the tightening of his hand on the arm of his chair. His other arm still hung immobilized at his side, bent at the elbow to rest on his lap.

The only imperfection she could find on his body was the ugly black mark that writhed evilly on the underside of his left forearm, especially dark contrasting against the pale, delicate skin and the bright blue veins that ran underneath. It looked so wrong on him – like Satan had dragged an angel down from heaven and branded it with his foul mark. No matter how hard she tried to ignore it, it was always there, a dark spot at the corner of her peripheral vision.

"_Tergeo."_ She siphoned excess blood from his body, levitating it over to the kitchen sink to pour down the drain. She cast a silent _Scourgify_ and cleaned the rest of the dried blood and dirt from his pale form.

"_Reveleo vulnus,"_ she whispered, tracing the lines of his head and body with the wand, emitting a soft bluish glow that absorbed into his skin as the wand passed. He shivered as the coolness of the revealing charm engulfed him.

She hummed, studying him thoughtfully with bright chocolate eyes. He shifted under her persistent dark gaze.

"What was that spell?" he inquired curiously.

"It allowed me to see any injuries you sustained," she explained nonchalantly, her fingers probing at the deep, jagged cut on his arm; it continued to bleed profusely. She muttered another cleaning incantation. "So I know what needs attending to."

He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "I've never heard of it."

"That's because I invented it," she responded simply. He hissed and jerked away when she ran a hand over his swollen shoulder. "Now be as still as you can – I'm going to start with your head injury, because you have a minor concussion. Then I'll do my best to fix up these cuts…and then we'll attend to your shoulder."

He swallowed. "Just get it over with," he said hoarsely.

She placed her left hand on the unmarred side of his head, just above his ear, to steady him. She momentarily lost concentration as he closed his eyes, struck once again by his ethereal beauty. It should be a sin for someone to look like him.

Pressing the tip of his wand against his skull, she let her magic flow through it and into his head. _"Consano cerebrum. Percuro_ _calvaria."_ When the damage to his brain and skull was healed, she began to run her wand over his arms and torso, watching as the wounds were infused with a soft golden glow and his flesh knit back together. _"Vulnera sanentur."_

She motioned for him to stand. "Lie down on the floor," she commanded imperiously, stepping back to let him move. He looked hesitant to obey – he did not like being vulnerable in any way; even allowing her to use his wand had been a great leap of faith – but caved under her withering stare, grumbling as he gingerly lowered himself onto the wooden floor and lied down flat on his back.

She noticed his eyes flicker down to her bare legs briefly as she knelt down beside him, his gaze lingering on the tan flesh just a little bit longer than was appropriate. She felt the beginnings of a blush creep up her neck, and wished she had had the presence of mind to put on more clothing.

"You have a very small hairline fracture on your clavicle," she said, glad that her voice did not convey her nervousness. "That will be easy for me to heal with a spell, but I'll have to fix your dislocated shoulder manually – which will hurt like a bitch," she added.

He nodded wordlessly, swallowing. He stared up at the ceiling, his eyes the color of iron. Over the course of their late night meetings the past few weeks, Hermione had become fascinated with his eyes. She had learned to detect the sentiments that passed through them: the only signs of emotion in an otherwise emotionless face. They changed color constantly, and she wondered if he knew it. His grey orbs would be cloudy and dark one minute, the color of smoking charcoal, and then they would lighten up to glistening silver, liquid and mercurial. Once, when he had come in from a storm all wet and bedraggled, they were so pale they almost resembled opals; she had never figured out what had happened that night, and what sort of emotion he was feeling – and, despite looking for it every time she was with him, hopeful that the sparkling pearly color would make an appearance, she had not seen it again since.

He flinched as she pressed the tip of his wand against his collarbone, squeezing his eyes closed. His jaw clenched as she muttered the healing spell. _"Brackium emendo."_

She nodded to herself in satisfaction, pleased with her handiwork. Then she set the wand down next to her on the floor and scooted closer to him. His eyes remained closed as she grabbed his hand, pressed down on his clavicle with the other, and jerked.

To his credit he did not cry out, merely grunted and inhaled sharply, wincing as his shoulder gave an almighty _pop_ and was wrenched back into place. His muscles tightened, flexing tantalizingly as he arched off the floor. He squeezed her hand momentarily and then relaxed, exhaling through his nose.

"Shit, Granger," he groaned, letting his head thunk back on the floor.

Her lips quirked. "It'll feel better tomorrow. For now though…_Episky,"_ she murmured, flourishing her wand over his shoulder in an elaborate pattern. "And, let's see…" she mused, racking her brain for the pain alleviating spell. _"Allevo morsus."_

He sighed in instant relief, relaxing against the floor and rubbing his shoulder. "Have I ever told you how much I appreciate your repertoire of advanced spell casting?" he said humorously, his lips curling up slightly at the corners in the closest thing to a smile she had ever seen on his face.

She rolled her eyes at him. "You've never shown any discernable positive sentiments towards me at all, Malfoy," she scoffed. "The best I've gotten is a sort of indifferent neutrality. But please, don't start now…I wouldn't want you to ruin your carefully constructed façade."

She had not expected him to sit up so quickly, and had not realized just how close she was kneeling next to him until his face was merely inches from hers. Her breath hitched. She could feel the side of his thigh against her bent calf, the material of his jeans rough against her soft skin; it was the barest hint of a touch, if you could even call it that, but nonetheless the sensation sent strong tingles up her leg, like her nerve endings were being shocked. It reminded her of the feeling you get when the guy you are crushing on is suddenly and unexpectedly very close to you – in class, in the hall, in the cafeteria – and you lose the ability to function, getting all hot and tingly; except this was a hundred times more intense. She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. Black spots danced across her vision, and she could hear the blood pounding in her ears.

She could not look away from his eyes. They reminded her of a time many years ago, as a child, when she had accidentally dropped her parents' old-fashioned thermometer; it had shattered on the ground, and she had almost touched the toxic mercury that oozed from its remains, so enthralled was she with its color. His gaze shone as pale as the unicorn blood she had seen her first night in the Forbidden Forest as a naïve eleven-year-old. Just like both of those substances, the color of his eyes was captivating – and equally deadly. She could see the keen intelligence behind his stare, hinting at the sharp and brilliant mind she knew he possessed. A variety of emotions swam within their swirling silver depths, each as intense as the next; sadness, longing, desire, and the ever-present white-hot rage she was so familiar with, and so intrigued by – forever burning within him, just waiting to explode.

"Thanks, Granger."

It was murmured in a low, sensual tone, with an unusual amount of inflection that he rarely allowed in his voice. Two simple words, and yet they were like a punch to the gut that managed to take her breath away in one fell swoop. The phrase of gratitude was accompanied by a feather-light touch of his knuckle against her cheek; her lips parted, lost in the complexity of his mercurial gaze and rendered helpless by the oh-so-soft feel of his touch.

And then he was gone, taking his insomnia with him, and she was alone with her own sleeplessness once again.

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Four nights later at about three o'clock in the morning, she found herself casting the same silencing spell around the kitchen and dining area; although this time she was pressed up against the refrigerator by the same gorgeous, half-naked blonde she had unwittingly developed feelings for somewhere down the line.

Within 45 minutes of his arrival they had finished an entire bottle of firewhiskey, alternating between their usual comfortable silence and the insulting banter that was really just thinly veiled sexual tension. Neither of them had realized just how much pent-up energy they had until, after two months of ignoring the same mutual attraction, a powerful surge of magnetism engulfed them simultaneously and they collided in a whirlwind of long-repressed desire.

Pure lust gripped her in its unyielding embrace, her desire for him fierce and pungent. It was like an unexpected tornado of feeling had swept her up, and she was helpless to fight it, blowing around in the cyclone like a plastic bag. He smoothly situated himself to stand between her legs, and the heady sensation of his jeans-clad erection grinding against her core had her panting like a dog in heat as his scorching mouth made a trail down her neck to her chest. Her robe lay discarded somewhere on the floor; his shirt was draped haphazardly over a kitchen chair. His hands slipped under her thin tank top for a brief moment, working her nipples into hard, raised peaks with his nimble fingers before he brought one hand back up to cup her neck while the other slithered down her body to press the heel of his palm against her clit through her black cotton bikini.

She gasped as arousal shot up her spine like a bolt of lightning, and he silenced her with a passionate kiss, slanting his lips across hers and caressing her tongue with his in a show of skill and dexterity that had her wondering what other things he might be capable of doing with that mouth. She kissed him back, matching his ferocity, nipping at his lips and clutching his face between her hands. When his clever fingers slipped inside her panties, pushing the material aside to run his long digits up her slit, her breath hitched and she let her head fall back against the refrigerator door, her eyes slipping closed. Two fingers worked their way into her snug channel, which was more than wet enough for their entry, her juices facilitating his access. Her pussy welcomed the intrusion, clamping down on his fingers, tight from little use and aching for something bigger. He hummed in satisfaction and anticipation, curling his fingertips to stroke the spot on her inner wall that had her seeing stars. Her hands slipped down to wrap tightly around his neck as he pumped his fingers lazily in and out of her, using his free hand to lift her knee up, hitching her leg around his hips to give him better access.

Hermione's breath became labored as she rode his fingers, her desire building to a flaming inferno. It had been way too long since she'd been with a man: a handsome blonde Irishman named Rand who ran Order headquarters in Dublin, and that had been almost eighteen months ago. She was by no means an expert on sex – she had only had five partners over the last six years – but she was hardly inexperienced, either, and she had been around the block enough times to know that what Draco was doing to her body was anything but typical. He played her like a tuning fork, somehow knowing instinctively what she needed and where she needed it.

It wasn't long before she was flying apart under his hands, the gentle pressure of his callused thumb on her clit sending her careening towards the edge and hurtling over into utter bliss. She cried out as violent tremors seized her body, her legs quivering with the force of her orgasm. He held her steady as she rode the intense waves of pleasure, arching back against the cool surface of the refrigerator and clutching at his shoulders as if her life depended on it.

She hardly noticed when he unzipped his pants and dropped them, along with his boxer briefs, down to the floor. She could barely stand up straight when he lowered her leg back to the ground and immediately hooked her panties with his fingers and tugged them swiftly down her legs, helping her step out of them; then without warning he lifted her easily into his arms, his toned muscles not even straining under the weight, and carried her to the dining room table. He set her down on the edge and she immediately wrapped her legs around his waist and pulled him down for a searing kiss, not as frantic as earlier but just as passionate – a slow, sensuous glide of tongues and lips and teeth. His hands were at her knee and waist, and she relished the sensation of his callused palms on her smooth, soft skin.

He let out a tortured groan against her mouth as she snaked a hand in between them to stroke his manhood, deliciously thick and heavy in her palm. She swiped her thumb over his weeping tip and he growled in response and firmly pushed her back onto the table, sliding his hand down from her chest to her stomach. Keeping her hips pinned with gentle pressure on her abdomen, he met her dark umber eyes with his own, like two round disks of tarnished steel, and slid into her slowly.

She never broke his heated gaze as he filled her to the brim, inch by glorious inch, until he was lodged to the hilt inside of her and the tip of his cock pressed insistently against her womb. He withdrew, his nostrils flaring at the slick friction of flesh on flesh, and pushed back in; he started slowly, and then increased his speed to set a moderate pace, the timing and depth of his thrusts torturously consistent until she was writhing underneath him, trying to break free of his hold on her lower body but to no avail. She moaned as her pussy embraced him like an old friend, closing over his thick length every time he plunged into her and squeezing him every time he withdrew, reluctant to let him go.

When she was practically sobbing in frustration, her hands balling into fists on the smooth wood of the table and her heels digging into his lower back, he finally relinquished his pressure on her abdomen and helped her to move against him, guiding her with his hands on her hips as she rolled them up to meet his, arching her body lithely off the table.

She keened loudly, chanting his name like a prayer, and he picked up his pace, speeding up until he was slamming into her brutally. With every thrust of his cock she unraveled a little bit more, and the burning pressure in her belly coiled tightly, a delicious kind of torture that she never wanted to stop and yet couldn't wait to explode.

He slid a hand down her waist, over golden skin that glistened with a fine sheen of sweat.

"Hermione."

She realized it was the first time he had ever used her given name, and she decided she liked the sound of it in his deep, velvety voice. It was a caress slipping from his tongue, said as if in reverence to a god. She tried to focus on him, tried to hear past the ringing in her ears and the black spots that danced before her vision. She admired the pale, muscular form of his body, the wide shoulders and sculpted chest, the square jaw and aristocratic nose, the white silk of his hair and the grey pools of his eyes.

His thumb on her clit had her gasping in surprise, hanging on the precipice of her orgasm. He rubbed it in rapid circles and hitched her leg up with his other hand, canting her hips to hit her at a different angle and allow for deeper penetration. She swore colorfully as stars exploded in front of her eyes and she tipped over the edge of her climax, coming violently.

"Yes, Draco!" she shouted, arching off the table as her body tensed and relaxed, tensed and relaxed. Her juices burst forth from her throbbing pussy, and her inner walls squeezed down around his cock as he continued to piston his hips against hers. He moaned as he pounded her into oblivion, rocking the table, and his movements became frantic; he had guaranteed her release and was now desperately seeking his own.

She felt the exact moment when he came inside of her, shooting his warm seed into her channel as she milked him for all he was worth. His grip on her thighs was almost bruising, and the look on his face was one of utter bliss as his orgasm crashed through him, his cock pulsing inside of her. They looked at each other in rapture as they came down from the intensity of their high, their chests heaving as they tried to catch their breath.

Groaning, he fell back into the chair, lifting her and taking her with him to straddle his lap; he remained sheathed inside of her, both of them reluctant to withdraw. His head fell back, and she felt the absurd urge to kiss his Adam's Apple. She pushed a sweaty strand of hair from her face, attempting to tuck it back into the ponytail that was now hopelessly disheveled. She sighed, sated, and leaned forward to rest her forehead against his collarbone.

"Why the bloody hell didn't we do this sooner?" she asked hoarsely, her lips moving against the taut skin of his chest. His pectoral muscle quivered in response; she loved how sensitive he was to her touch, and vice versa.

He made a noise between a hum and a laugh, his chest vibrating against her. "Oh believe me, Granger, there isn't one night that we sat here when I wasn't thinking about how many ways I could fuck you in this kitchen."

She pulled back and looked at him in horror. "That's what you were thinking about while you sat in stony silence across the table from me?" she asked incredulously. "And here I thought you were musing over the important, meaningful things in life. I sat there wondering what you were thinking so hard about, entertaining myself with the possible inner workings of your tortured soul and traumatized psyche."

He snorted skeptically. "A naked, beautiful woman is just about as important and meaningful as it gets, Granger. I think you overestimate the male sex as a whole. Despite my tortured soul and traumatized psyche, as you so articulately put it, nothing can change the fact that I am a twenty-something-year-old male with a very functional sex drive and a healthy imagination."

She smiled in amusement, her lips curving against his skin. His fingers traced languorous, random patterns absentmindedly across the smooth expanse of her back, goosebumps rising in their wake.

"Granger."

"Hmm?" she replied lazily, her eyes fluttering closed as relaxation engulfed her sated body. She could almost feel sleep on the horizon, teasing the corners of her consciousness. It was a cruel game, insomnia; a pitiless mistress that stole away the night while simultaneously robbing one of one's sanity.

"Marry me."

She stiffened. "Sorry…what?" she asked, afraid to lift her head from his shoulder.

"After this is all over, when our lives aren't in constant peril…" he continued, "…marry me." It was said so nonchalantly, so casually, that she almost forgot exactly what he was suggesting.

"Are you serious?" she asked, finally pulling back to look at him with wary, narrowed eyes. Her mouth was drawn into a thin line.

The last reaction she expected was an eye roll, accompanied by an insult that had her spine stiffening. "Don't be daft, Granger," he drawled, his tone snarky but his eyes serious. If there was one thing Hermione Granger had never been called, it was stupid.

"Think about it," he continued easily. "We're good together. If the two of us can't make it work with each other, then it's not going to work with anyone. Tell me: have you ever been in a relationship where you weren't utterly bored almost all the time?" He placed a finger over her lips when she opened her mouth to speak. "Rhetorical question. Don't answer that. And how many times have you laid awake from dusk to dawn listening to the peaceful snores of your lover next to you? It's miserable, isn't it?" he asked quietly, all jest and malice gone from his voice.

She swallowed. "Yes," she admitted, looking down. He brought a hand under her chin, tilting her head back up so she was forced to meet his clear sterling eyes.

"I'm lonely, Granger," he conceded slowly, never breaking her gaze. His expression was unusually vulnerable; his silver eyes were open windows to his soul. "And I'm tired. You are the only person – the _only_ person, mind you – that has managed to challenge me. You are my equal in all things. And I think I'm right in assuming that I am the only acquaintance you have ever made who even comes close to matching you intellectually. Can you deny it?"

She frowned. "No," she replied sullenly. She could feel the pout start to pull at her face, and struggled to shove it away. "But this is insane, Malfoy. We hardly know each other!" she exclaimed, huffing.

"Correction: _you_ don't know _me,"_ he stated arrogantly, smirking at her. "I know you very well. Every thought and feeling that crosses through your mind is clearly displayed on your face; you're very expressive. Your favorite color is purple. You have a weird obsession with koala bears." He snorted in amusement, and she blushed, surprised that he knew.

His voice became quiet, solemn. "And you live every day of your life in constant disappointment, knowing that you will struggle to find anyone who thinks the way you do. So you settle, Granger. You are loyal to friends who will never understand you – and will never truly try to; despite their best intentions, they are simply more content to leave your personality at face value and would much rather be ignorant of the workings of your inner mind. And you'll put on a happy face as you pretend to be satisfied with their company and enjoy the incredibly mundane existence that you lead, all the while wasting your potential for greatness. You will spend your entire life staring at them wistfully, desperately wishing for the peaceful simplicity that they seem to accomplish so easily. So you will try to imitate them.

"But you can't, Granger. You will never have that peace of mind; you will never be able to settle for blissful ignorance, no matter how ideal it may seem. Your brain is like a tireless hamster on a wheel, forever going, going, going – but under the wrong circumstances it will become a ticking time bomb. You always want to ask the questions that nobody else seems to think about, and eventually you will realize that no one is really listening to you; no one really wants to take the time to care about the things you find so important. And it's not that they're always all selfish bastards, or brainless gits, or that they don't love you – it's just that they think differently than you do, and no matter how hard you try you will never be on the same wavelength."

His eyes were far away now, she noticed, and held a degree of melancholy; she suspected that they were no longer speaking only of her. His gaze was one of introspection, and there was a significant sadness there, and a sense of longing that was so palpable she could almost taste it.

And she realized that every word that came out of his mouth was the absolute, unabashed truth.

"Not to mention the sex is bloody fantastic," he continued casually, his voice back to its usual arrogant drawl.

She scoffed, staring at him skeptically. "If this is some sort of sick joke, Malfoy, I swear…" she warned, glaring at him suspiciously.

He laughed exasperatedly. "Oh come _on,_ Granger!" he returned, rolling his eyes. "I'm not _evil._ It's a reasonable idea, and you know it. And you don't want to be alone for the rest of eternity, do you?" He raised an eyebrow.

A muscle ticked in her jaw. "Of course I don't. But I'm not going to assume I can't be happy with someone else; Ron has been expressing interest again lately, and he – "

" – would bore you to tears," he finished, cutting her off. "Don't be absurd."

She fumed, but deep down she knew he was right. He had hit the nail on the head with every statement he'd made, and the more he spoke the more she realized just how alike they were on so many levels. The thought infuriated her, simply because it was _him;_ out of all the people on the planet, the one person who had the best shot at making her happy just happened to be Draco _bloody_ Malfoy.

Oh, how vindictive the world could be.

She exhaled slowly through her nostrils, closing her eyes momentarily to ground herself. It was hard to think straight, when he was tracing those maddeningly gentle patterns on her back with the pads of his fingers.

Could she truly imagine a future with this man? He who had once tormented her so ruthlessly as a boy – who had shown her nothing but spite and disdain since the day he'd laid eyes on her? He had stood by and watched like a wretched coward when she was sprawled on his living room carpet, his maniacal aunt torturing her until she lay broken and weeping on the floor. And after he had defected he had merely treated her with condescending indifference, evading her presence at every turn for over five years, even as they occasionally joined up on missions or ended up having to watch each other's back in battle.

Until the night they had shared their first drink at the ancient dining room table at Number 12 Grimmauld Place, sitting in silence – two insomniacs suffering together, each avoiding the dark dreams that haunted them and drowning their trauma in the amber liquid that filled their glasses. Several nights a week they sat there next to each other wordlessly as sleep eluded them…or they eluded it. Any words spoken were either scornful or teasing, any conversations short-lived and biting.

But she was not oblivious to the easiness of their banter, or of how comfortable they were in each other's presence. She had tried to turn a blind eye to the heated looks he sometimes shot her way, and the charming half-smile he graced her with more frequently as time went on. One time he had come up behind her to help her get a new bottle of liquor from the cabinet above the refrigerator, and that was the point at which, with his body only inches away from hers, she had realized – with no small amount of irritation, mind – that she had a very real and very _adult_ attraction to him, and had subsequently spent every moment of her time with him trying to shove it to the back of her mind. She had not been able to ignore how effortlessly their thoughts meshed, or how their minds synced together so quickly.

And she had seen the way he had changed; the way he threw himself into his work, sacrificing everything for a world he had never known and for people he had no reason to be loyal to. He had betrayed everything his family stood for, because he was _good – _genuinely good, and simply wanted to live in a world not ruled by fear and pain. His was a naturally compassionate soul that had been so utterly disfigured by years of misery and evil that it was beyond repair – but not beyond redemption. And so she had watched, captivated, as his true form was revealed: someone who was incredibly brave, and loyal, and perhaps more sensitive than anyone gave him credit for. She had watched him risk his life in battle, pulling injured Aurors to safety even as he wore the robes and mask of the enemy. He put his life on the line time and time again for people – _her_ people – who would just as soon see him rot in Azkaban; or kill him.

All for what? He had little to no chance of ever living contentedly once Voldemort was gone and peace was established; society would ruin any potential for happiness, simply because he was who he was. He would be forever caught between worlds, suspended between light and dark. Draco Malfoy was, and always would be, a shade of grey. An enigma; a man who was destined to walk the world alone, never fitting in.

And yet he understood her better than any other. He was able to see through her, to find her true spirit – but did not shy away. He was not intimidated by her intelligence, but strived to match it, to challenge her.

His spellcasting was masterful; he was one of the most skilled wizards she had ever seen perform magic. An expert in both Legilimency and Occlumency, he had full control over his own mind, and had managed to fool Voldemort and all of his followers for years with them none the wiser. He was deadly in a duel, possessing a deep-rooted, powerful magic and a fluid grace, never losing his cool head and steady hand. She remembered how effortlessly he had dispatched four of his own – Rosier, Nott, Avery and one of the Lestrange brothers; all of them seasoned wizards and far more experienced than he – saving Neville Longbottom and Hermione herself from what would have been a certainly brutal death and once again risking his own position in the Death Eater ranks. His skills in battle far outmatched her own, and unlike most Order members and Aurors he was not shy about using the killing curse; while most deemed the Unforgivables as prohibited, he had no such reservations – he could not afford for any of Voldemort's followers to out him, and therefore could leave no witnesses. The only people on their side that could outmatch Draco magically were Kingsley and Moody and perhaps Hermione herself. Dumbledore (though now deceased) and Voldemort were the only two wizards that she knew of who were more proficient in wandless and wordless magic, and she wished she had the courage to ask him to teach her more. A few months ago while on a joint assignment she had discovered that he was an animagus, shrinking down into a grey, amber-eyed wolf before her very eyes. He was just as knowledgeable as she was about a great many things, and was not only full of information, but also _ideas_ – she knew they could spend years bouncing their thoughts off one another until they died…probably while debating some inane issue that only the two of them would even think to discuss. They had a tangible connection, one that they had been ignoring for far too long.

It troubled her. And now that he was acknowledging it all out loud, she was helpless to run from it.

"I can't lie to myself any longer, Granger," he said. His thumb stroked over her cheek, and her eyes cracked open, their dark mahogany depths contrasting with the swirling silver of his striking gaze. "I think it's time you did, too. You know that all I've said is true, as difficult as it may be to hear. We _have_ something, Hermione," he said passionately, his use of her first name startling her, "and I know you feel it. It makes sense; _we_ make sense. So I'll ask again: marry me."

She raised her eyebrows, a smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth. "I don't think you are familiar with the definition of the word 'ask,' Draco. The concept of a question seems to be lost on you."

"Marry me?"

She sighed, amused in spite of herself. "Fine."

"Fine?"

"I'm…intrigued…enough to go along with it," she mused, cocking her head.

"Don't sound so enthusiastic, Granger." His voice dripped with sarcasm.

"I'm not that easy, _Malfoy,"_ she responded acerbically, narrowing her eyes. She was seriously questioning her sanity; surely no one in their right mind would agree to spend their life with this man.

She jerked and gasped as he grabbed her thighs and rolled his hips under hers without warning, her hands flying to his shoulders as a bolt of arousal shot through her body. He was already hard again inside of her. He smirked.

"Could have fooled me."

Growling in annoyance, she leaned forward and sucked his bottom lip in between her teeth, biting down. He hissed in a mixture of desire and pain.

"Fuck you, Malfoy."

He chuckled.

The world had gone fucking _insane._

000000

She had reluctantly and with great effort asked to stay behind, squirming under the scrutinizing stares of her friends as she claimed to have severe chest pains.

The real reason Hermione decided to sit this one out was the little pink light that had appeared at the tip of her wand earlier that morning – but they didn't need to know that.

Suspicion had flashed across Harry's solemn green eyes – he had always known her better than the rest – and she had schooled her expression into one of sincere concern and apology. His eyes had narrowed, as if seeing the lie blatantly in her eyes, but he had not pushed it, merely nodded and turned away. Molly had patted her on the shoulder affectionately, her hazel eyes full of motherly concern, and Remus said something about how she would be missed but her healing skills were just as invaluable as her dueling skills.

She had not really paid attention, only watched them march off to battle while her stomach squirmed and her head was filled with thoughts of _him._

Her mind wandered to him continuously, even as Shell Cottage began to fill up with the wounded, Healers bustling about as injured witches and wizards lay moaning on cots and people apparated in and out, popping in only to escort a hurt comrade to safety before they were gone in a whoosh, throwing themselves back into the fight.

She so wished she could go with them, apparate onto the battlefield and hurl herself into the fray, shooting curses left and right as she sent those foul Death Eaters straight back to _hell,_ but she couldn't. She had to stay behind, even though this battle would prove to be the most pivotal fight of the war.

She would not, _could_ not, endanger a life not her own.

She would not risk the life of her unborn child.

Hermione nearly sobbed in relief as a figure with familiar white-blonde hair came striding through the back door into the kitchen, carrying an unconscious Ginny Weasley in his arms. George, whose ear she was currently trying to bandage, pulled out of her grasp and went immediately to where Ginny was being laid down, stroking her hair as a Healer moved to attend to her.

Not a word of thanks was said to the man who had saved her life.

She felt more than a few curious stares on her back as she launched herself into the only surviving Malfoy's arms, burying her face in his shoulder. She didn't care – let them see. She was tired of acting like their romance was some dirty little secret; she'd had enough.

Draco's arms wrapped around her, his hand cradling her head to his shoulder. He sighed, pressing his nose to her hair and inhaling deeply, his eyes closed as he breathed her in.

"Hermione," he murmured tenderly.

He extracted himself from her, pulling back to look at her. He stroked her face.

"I have to get back," he said softly, staring at her with regret.

She wiped a smear of blood from his lip where it had been split open, giving him a soft smile. "I know."

No other words were exchanged. Turning his back, he strode back through the door and down the steps.

She rushed after him. "Draco, wait!"

He turned to look at her – a pale angel cloaked in darkness. His eyes were dark and unfathomable, like smoke. His mask hung at his neck, unfastened. One sleeve of his black robe was tattered. He looked at her expectantly.

She swallowed. "If you ever had a child, what would you name it?" she asked breathlessly, watching him nervously. Her breath puffed out in the cold November air, and she shivered as goosebumps rose on her skin.

His eyes widened imperceptibly and his lips parted a fraction. He stared at her in disbelief. "Are you serious?"

"Just answer the damn question, Malfoy," she answered irately, gritting her teeth and crossing her arms.

A wide grin split his face. It was a look of unbridled joy, one that she had never before seen him express, even in the few months they had been together. She felt her heart squeeze and fall through her feet.

"Madeleine," he replied simply, looking at her with an emotion in his eyes that had her heart thumping; it was one she was familiar with, and one she knew the meaning of, but one that had never been said out loud.

She smiled in response, and they held each other's gaze for a moment; then he turned away.

"What if it's a boy?" she called out before he had a chance to apparate.

He turned to face her, an enigmatic smirk on his face.

"It's not," he denied easily.

With a twist and a pop she was gone, and she was left alone in the cool night air, placing a hand on her stomach as she looked up to the stars and dared to hope.

000000

So many were dead.

But more of them were alive – more than she had expected.

Voldemort was dead. He would come back in a few years, as he had before – they had not destroyed all of his horcruxes – but for now he was gone, and his vile group of followers had scattered like roaches, all sense of unity lost now that their leader was no more. They would reunite, yes, and the war would begin again, but for now…for now, it was _over._

She sighed in relief as her comrades and friends began to pop back in, bedraggled and bloodied and exhausted, cradling broken bones and sporting tattered clothes. She smiled fondly as Ron pouted, holding the two pieces of his broken wand in his hand, staring at them forlornly. Remus kissed Tonks, and Harry knelt by Ginny's bedside, smoothing her vibrant red hair back at the temples. George had Fred in a tight embrace, and both wept over their fallen older brother, Bill, whose still body was laid out on the sandy lawn outside, looked down upon by his parents and a weeping Fleur. Charlie sat in a chair in the corner, his t-shirt torn, drinking firewhiskey from the bottle.

Sirius stood on the front porch with a dazed Neville, squeezing his shoulder in comfort as Luna's body was levitated to lie in between Dean and Flitwick. Padma was kneeling on the sand next to her sister, watching in horror as two Healers and Minerva tried to keep Parvati alive; when her twin took her last shuddering breath, choking up blood, Padma wailed and rested her head on her dead sister's stomach, closing her eyes as wretched sobs wracked her body. Moody's crumpled form lay off to the side, hidden by shadows and undisturbed. What was left of Lee Jordan was burnt beyond recognition, and Lavender Brown's face, once so beautiful, had been clawed down the middle.

Hermione was a patient woman; so she waited, pacing through the house and around the yard, until the sun broke over the eastern horizon.

She heard laughter from inside, heard glasses clinking together. Anxiety clawing in her belly, she stepped inside. People turned to look at her. She caught Harry's eye, and he looked away quickly.

"Have you seen Malfoy, Harry?" she asked nervously, her hand automatically going to her stomach. "He hasn't come back, and I just thought maybe you saw him…"

She trailed off lamely. The room had gone quiet. Harry would not meet her eyes. No one would meet her eyes, actually.

She looked around frantically. "Where is he?" she asked shakily, her voice breaking. "What happened?" When no one spoke, she exploded. "ANSWER ME!" she screamed, tears now pouring down her face.

Finally Sirius stood up from his seat at the kitchen table, stepping forward with drink in hand. His eyes were grim, his mouth set in a hard line.

"His cover was blown," he said gently, meeting her gaze. His grey eyes vaguely reminded her of his cousin's; of her lover's. "I saw him dueling Bellatrix, but…" He cleared his throat. "I'm sorry, Hermione, I don't know what to tell you. I didn't see what happened to him."

Numbness overtook her, spreading throughout her weak body. Her normally bright eyes, glittering with intelligence and life, shone dully from beneath eyelashes weighed down with salty tears. For the first time in years, her whirring mind came to an abrupt stop.

"Didn't see," she asked softly, "or didn't care?"

Sirius looked away. Remus was frowning, staring at the hand on her stomach. Harry's eyes were far away, haunted by the memory of another place and time.

"Hermione," Remus said slowly. "Are you…?"

She stared at him in the eye for a long moment, knowing the confirmation he sought, but she did not dignify him with a response. Her heart was shriveling within her chest.

Turning on her heel, she walked through the house and out the front door, disapparating on the spot and leaving the guilty consciousnesses of her friends behind.

The door to Number 12 Grimmauld Place was unlocked; the house was quiet and dark. Walking down the dusty hallway to the kitchen she pulled open the liquor cabinet, stared at the half-finished bottle of Ogden's on the shelf – and then closed it regretfully, rubbing her stomach with the heel of her palm. In lieu of whiskey, she made herself a cup of hot tea.

She took the bottle of firewhiskey from the cabinet anyway and set it down on the dining room table with a glass. Pulling her hair back, she sat tiredly, slumping down in the wooden chair as she sipped her Earl Grey.

She stared through the open doorway of the kitchen and into the hallway, looking directly at the front door.

If he were going to come back to her, he would come looking for her here.

And so Hermione Granger sat, alone, at the table where she'd fallen in love, and thought about all the things she wished she'd said to the complex, beautiful man who she may never see again. And there she waited, waited, waited…

…with insomnia her only company.

_**Fin**_


End file.
